


In a Thousand Mirrors

by one_windiga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Gen, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-10
Updated: 2011-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_windiga/pseuds/one_windiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many John Watsons, the way that there are thousands of reflections when two mirrors cross, the way that one decision splits into a thousand threads that veer off and tangle in their own ways.  This one is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Thousand Mirrors

There are many John Watsons, the way that there are thousands of reflections when two mirrors cross, the way that one decision splits into a thousand threads that veer off and tangle in their own ways.  Some matter.  Some don't.  Some die.  Some live.

This one lives.

Oh, does he live.

This John Watson goes to his interview at Stamford, but the interviewer is a nasty bloke that arrives ten minutes late and questions him condescendingly and drinks his coffee in a terribly smug way.  He hasn't even set foot on campus and suddenly John wants nothing to do with the place.  He throws out his acceptance letter, and when his mother calls to check on his applications, he lies and tells her that he's got everything sorted out.

He has to find a new career, and he has to do it fast.  He goes to the career fairs the university throws and he wanders aimlessly through the stalls.  He has an excellent resume; he earned good marks in all of his courses, he volunteered constantly, and he always presents himself impeccably with good manners and clean jumpers.  He could do just about anything.

He wasn't expecting to be approached by a recruitment officer for the government, but then again, he didn't expect to be turning down medical school, did he?

He takes polygraph tests, psychological evaluations, fitness exams, medical assays, and even once, notably, a marksmanship practical.  Suddenly, he's being trained for the M16, and he doesn't know exactly how he got here and when it happened, but he's being trained on how to scale sheer skyscrapers and parachute onto rooftops, and who is he to complain about that?

This John Watson never earns his white coat.  He still knows every bone in the body, but that's because he knows at least three different ways of breaking each and every one of them, not because he's spent hours in front of x-rays.  He can't use a stethoscope to hear an arrhythmia, but he can use it to crack a safe.  He doesn't learn Latin, but he does learn Mandarin, Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese.

His missions are not endless tours in the Middle Eastern desert, hovering wearily over bloody cots and stitching flesh together until his fingers cramp.  His missions are lightning fast, disguises and concealed-carry weapons, memorized blueprints and codewords.

When he finally arrives back in London, it's not because he took a Jezail bullet in the shoulder.  It's because he was captured in the line of duty, taken hostage for a heart-stopping two and a half months in which he lived in near darkness, a wet-filth cell.  He learned the limits of his pain and of his mind when they took the scalpel to him, but even the jumper cables pouring electricity into his bones couldn't make him talk, not when he bit his own tongue until it bled to muffle his cries.  He is rescued eventually by a small team of operatives, sent by helicopter to a hospital where he lives for another month until the damage heals.

He is discharged with honors, though nobody without clearance would ever know, and when he limps through London, he automatically scans every alley and every rooftop for a threat, a constant thrum of _friendorfoefriendorfoe_ in his head, tattooed beneath his skin.

This John Watson is a different John Watson, but when the rain slicks against the windowpanes in his drab flat, he still dreams of blood and fire just the same.


End file.
